The Angel That Saved My Life

A Vietnam veteran, a service dog, and the writing group that saved my life.

In April 2023 I needed help. I literally was at the end of my rope – at the Wit’s End exit. The day before, I sent my dear friend, Butch Skillman, a plein air oil painting created by my very talented son-in-law, Andy Nesselrod. I loved the painting and the act of giving it to my buddy gave my life a small purpose; I could feel a whisper of joy knowing the pleasure it would bring him and his wife, Margaret. If you haven’t already guessed by now, I was in my mind’s la planta baja, i.e., the ground floor, headed to the basement, clinically depressed to the max and planning my final trip on the Eternity Express.

I intended to end my life within the next few days by overdosing with pain medications. I had three previous back surgeries and had enough pain pills stashed away to help a clan of people take their final ride to oblivion.

I have been diagnosed with a condition called “treatment-resistant depression,” meaning antidepressant pharmaceuticals don’t work on me; in many cases I am allergic to them. Over more than forty years I have tried every known antidepressant. Every one; even those prescribed for the Pharaohs, thousands of years ago. The only drug that temporarily worked for me was Prozac. It was great. I was able to stop taking the drug after a year and one-half.

A few months later depression was back at my door. I got another prescription for “Vitamin P” (Prozac). This time, instead of improving my mood, I wanted to commit suicide like there was a gold medal for first one over the finish line.

I had been self-isolating but recently was at last-ditch effort to socialize to get out of my rut. I attended a Veterans of Foreign Wars chapter meeting that was not satisfying except while there, I met a woman with a service dog. I figured it was to help with her PTSD. 

I had been a member of the board of directors of the Southwest Region of Canine Companions for Independence, a service-dog charity for fifteen years and a five-term board president. I was aware of the massive problem of sexual harassment in the military. I surmised she most likely was a rape victim. Suspecting that, I approached her and spoke to her about her dog, hoping she would not see me as a threat. I later learned my suspicions were confirmed — she in fact had been brutally raped.

At the end of the meeting she invited me to a writers’ group at a nearby veterans’ center the following Saturday. I attended that writers’ group, and my life plans dramatically changed; it continued.

Remember the cherubic angel character Clarence Odbody in the Frank Capra movie, It’s a Wonderful Life? Clarence saved George Bailey [Jimmy Stewart] and in doing so, earned its angel’s wings. His mantra was, “every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.” I don’t recall hearing any bells ringing then, but this lady was my Clarence and I’ll vouch for her wings any time.

When I was a platoon commander in Vietnam, I did not respond well to the traumatic effects of combat. I complained to a VA physician about survivor’s guilt in the early 1970s, and was told I needed to “grow up.” No one was thanking anyone for their service back then, or tying colored ribbons around trees – oak or not.

I told the doctor I wasn’t going to do it, but I wanted to punch his lights out. He backed out of that exam room faster than Santa Claus goes up the chimney. So much for growing up, Doc.

I started writing a manuscript about Vietnam. The title was taken from an epigram on the back of a flak jacket of a platoon member whose name I cannot recall but do remember his nickname, Schmoo. It read: “Due to the lack of qualified trumpeters, the end of the world is postponed thirty days.” A very long title I reduced to Qualified Trumpeters. It was a tribute of sorts. His name is etched on the Vietnam Memorial wall; if I could only remember it, I could find him.

Michael Hennessy, January 15, 1968, Landing Zone Baldy, Vietnam

This lovely lady’s invitation to a writers’ group meeting had the effect Prozac and big pharma’s other psychotropics didn’t have for me; it gave me a life purpose. I put my life-ending plans on hold.

I went to that Saturday meeting a bit apprehensive. I do not know why I felt that way, as my fears were unfounded. The organization recently had been granted tax-free status by the IRS, meaning they now could solicit tax-deductible contributions.

The meeting opened with each person introducing themself with a mini biography, including military service. When it was my turn, sensing their ignorance of tax-exempt organizations and their operations, regulatory compliance requirements, I added that I was a retired tax attorney and was experienced in the nitty-gritty of these entities. I was energized. I knew I could help this organization flourish. My batteries were re-charging.

I also added that I had several clients with personal foundations. I committed to approaching them for grant money. I wrote a successful grant application to the Doyle Foundation and the writers’ group received $50,000.

I sat close to the front of the meeting room because of my poor hearing. I chose a seat next to and chatted up a man who introduced himself as Mike. We hit it off and have become friends. He is Mike Vopatek, a West Point graduate and fellow Vietnam veteran. His last comment before the meeting started was, “You’re the kind of guy I’d like to have a beer with.”

Many members of the Veterans Writing Group (VWG) have been awarded medals for valor and Purple Hearts for their wounds. They suffer the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) to some degree. They are universally adamant in their belief of the profound and cathartic relief experienced through the written word. They further understand their best audience is other veterans with similar experiences.

My oxytocin jets were pumping out positive emotions like I had not felt in months. I was surrounded by a group of veterans, most of whom were my age, many of whom had served in Vietnam, one of whom was at the same hospital in Japan as I, at the same time. It wasn’t family, but it was a great substitute. I had a purpose, or two or three or more. I was starting to wish I had not sent Andy’s painting to its new home in Rapid City. But, not to worry; it’s happy there.

I returned home early that afternoon and opened my computer to look for my old manuscript I started when my daughter was in high school; she is now age fifty with two children.

That draft manuscript described infantry platoon leader’s time in Vietnam. I was never able to pull it together to my satisfaction. I hired Hank Searles as editor. He was a prolific writer and editor. Hank told me he found humorous passages and wanted to focus on creating a funny book about Vietnam. He was emphatic, the world does not need another “war’s hell” book. The manuscript went back on the closet shelf to be taken down every year or two for another attempt in the dubious direction of eventual publication.

That afternoon I started with an idea that had occurred while I was sitting among the veteran writers. It was as if Calliope, the literary muse of Greek mythology, performed a lap dance on me. I wrote without awareness of time, hunger, or thirst. I stopped only long enough for a potty break or to get another drink.

That pattern continued. Seven months later I had a completed manuscript of a satire based on the Vietnam experience, now entitled, Landing Zone Gonzo.

My dear friend Jim O’Shea read an early version of the manuscript (which had a different title — Qualified Trumeters) and said, “I don’t get the title.” He was absolutely right. I put my ego back in the drawer and changed the title to Landing Zone Gonzo. My tribute to Schmoo remains but it is relegated to a paragraph with a description of his whimsical, semi-religious flak jacket epigram.

The point of all this for me is that the pen is mightier than big pharma and a lot cheaper. A New York Times article touts writing as the fastest-acting treatment for PTSD sufferers. I am living proof.

The woman’s invitation to the writers’ group was my salvation. She not only unlocked the door to my future, but also provided a gateway to help me to realize my writer’s ambition.

I think I just heard a bell ring!

Michael Hennessy